


Like I'm on fire

by backfourteen



Series: Lily white [4]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, English National Team, Euro 2016, M/M, and I can hardly believe it, après Iceland, there are some not-so-chaste things going on in this chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:10:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7348246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backfourteen/pseuds/backfourteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dele pretends he’s not nervous when he creeps to Eric’s room a few minutes after his neighbors lock themselves in for the night. He and Eric have never done this – go to each other’s rooms. They’ve laid in bed and kissed lazily between two-a-days, they’ve kissed in each other’s cars, they’ve fallen asleep holding hands in the common room at the training ground. But it’s night, and the way Eric looked at him on the bus was enough for Dele to know. If Dele wanted it to be, it could be different tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like I'm on fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% my coping mechanism. Together for England even when we're the definition of shambles. 
> 
> (Anyway, hope you enjoy part 4 of this ship I'm sailing)

Dele sinks to his knees shortly after the final whistle. Just outside the box, adjacent to Joe, who sits sprawled in fucked-out disappointment, whereas Dele curls into himself and rests his forehead on the pitch to block out the lights, to block out the roaring crowd that ripples with perfectly synced _Island_ chants and a light touch of clapping from the England supporters who will now go home and back to work. It makes Dele grit his teeth and makes his breath a little shaky but he berates himself until the sting behind his eyes is gone.

Gary’s close by as well, prostrate and unresponsive, and Wayne, who is doing his captain’s rounds, picking everyone up, gives him a pat on the head and the cheek. _Stand up, la_. It’s not an order as much as it's an affectionate call to confidence and dignity. Joe hoists himself up before Wayne can get to him and blankly offers Dele a gloved hand, which he takes. Dele has to blink a few times before the entire scene at the Allianz Riviera comes back into focus. Everyone’s on their feet now, looking a bit lost as Wayne gently ushers the men off the pitch. Some of them shake Roy’s hand and some don’t. Ray and Gary Neville are nowhere to be seen. Dele brushes Wayne off and heads slowly toward the center of the pitch, where Daniel’s still sitting with his head between his knees, and he briefly squeezes Harry’s hip on the way, who’s bent over, hands on knees, heaving with exhausted breaths. 

“Studge.” 

Dele puts his hand on Daniel’s arm and Daniel doesn’t look up. 

“Let’s get out of here, yeah? Fuck this. Let’s let this end.” 

And Daniel doesn’t thank Dele or really even give him a second glance as he stands up and jogs off the pitch, but Dele’s not hurt. Everyone deals in different ways. Dele’s head swims and nothing seems real, everything’s far away and underwater. Defeat gives him an urgency to get away, to get everyone away from the situation, to keep his brothers from hurting. He usually takes defeat with strength and leadership, especially for his young age. But today is different. Today he itches to be alone, to throw a fucking fit, to cry, to hit things. 

He doesn’t want to see anyone. There’s a list of lads he likes to see after a loss and a list of lads he’d rather die than see after a loss, but right now, neither matter. Dele thinks he wouldn’t like to see his own mum right now, really – he hums to himself as he goes down the tunnel to drown out the berating from the English fans surrounding the entrance. He had a shocker and now he must comfort himself, he thinks, accidentally bumping into Jamie and Jack as they each try to stay in their own heads, eyes down on the floor. It frightens him when Marcus grabs him by the forearm and stops him, fingers soft, as Marcus is gentle off the pitch but ferocious on. 

“You’re okay.” 

It’s more of a statement than a question, and Dele narrows his eyes a bit, frustrated but something inside him twists sharply and the sting builds in his sinuses. Dele pats Marcus’s hand on his arm. 

“Will be in time, mate. You were brilliant. Impact sub, you are. Should’ve started.” 

Marcus lets go of Dele, a flash of satisfaction and pride crossing his face that falls quickly back to solemnity. 

“You’re the only one of us that should be smiling. Know that.” 

And Dele leaves him, shedding all his clothes and leaving them in a haphazard heap outside the shower, turning the water as cold as it goes to relieve the full-body fever, turning it scalding when he begins to shiver. He scrubs hard with whoever’s soap and sponge were left in the shower until his skin is pink and raw. He stares at the tiles on the wall across from him, thinking distinctly of nothing until a single pestering thought enters his brain and he can’t help but let out a mirthless laugh and an apparently rather loud _what the fuck_. 

“You’ve said it, Del boy.” 

A voice replies from the adjacent shower, and Dele leans his head on the tile, shutting his eyes for a second and dwelling in the mutual misery that makes him feels slightly less lonely in the wake of this disaster. Dele gets out of the shower and sees Eric standing there just outside the adjacent shower, looking just as pink and miserable as he is, fluffy blonde hair matted down with water, strong chest deflated and slumped. Dele’s own chest tightens at the sight. He supposes that Eric is probably the only exception to his not-wanting-to-see-anyone attitude. 

“Was thinking about – ” Dele lowers his voice even though no one’s really milling about. “Your subbing off for Wilshere.” 

Eric does the same, almost playfully leaning toward Dele and cupping his hand around his mouth when he whispers. 

“I feel the same.” 

Eric straightens back up and sighs. “Though I’m not sure I could’ve changed anything staying on. Shambles, the lot of you. Should’ve just let Rashford play by himself. We would have at least drawn.” 

There’s no smile on Eric’s face but the self-deprecating lilt of his voice is so comforting to Dele. Eric doesn’t speak that way when’s he’s outside of himself, and Dele’s always at his most grounded when Eric is at his. 

“Stole the words from my mouth. You talk to any of the boys?” 

Eric shakes his head no. “Haven’t actually seen Harry, Kyle, or Danny. You?” 

“Harry’s in a rough spot. Sure he’s around here somewhere.” 

“Eh. Let’s get dressed then and get on the bus. Don’t want to fucking talk to anyone.” 

And Eric sets off for a moment before turning around and catching Dele having not moved, gazing after Eric. 

“Except you, Del boy.” 

Dele only manages a nod before Eric turns back around, but Dele clutches the towel around his waist tightly and thanks fuck he has Eric at times like this, when the footballing gods or goddesses have no mercy for England. Which is quite often. Dele guesses it’s just easier to admit to himself that there is not a moment that goes by that he is not thankful for Eric. His bare feet slap on the ground on his walk to the lockers and is surprised that neither Wazza nor Harty are trying to rouse the lads from the suffocating stupor. Wayne’s busy huddling with and speaking softly to Raheem, whom Dele has never seen look so ghostly. Nearby, James has his arm wrapped around Joe’s shoulder and speaks firmly and closely to Joe, but Dele can’t make out the words. Even in the late evening, it’s still a bit warm in Nice, but Dele slips into the heaviest England sweatpants and jumper he’s got, anticipating the chilly bus ride back to their living quarters. 

He embraces John and Ross perfunctorily when he encounters them, half listens to their dry words of comfort. He takes Adam’s, Jordan’s, and Nate’s hands as he comes across the Liverpool lads in an attempt to rouse Studge – if anyone could do it, it’s them. It feels a little like drowning, seeing all your best mates in distress at once, but just as his lungs begin to itch, Eric comes up behind Dele and wraps his arm low around Dele’s back, his skin warm enough for Dele to feel even through his top. 

“Didn’t wait for me to go to the bus, mate.” 

“I’m a little distracted.” 

Eric smiles soberly and draws Dele in close with the arm around his back, pressing his forehead briefly to Dele’s temple, Eric’s nose bumping Dele’s cheekbone. “It’s okay.” 

Eric’s wide eyes crinkle sadly in the corners as he smiles, and it’s staggering – Dele has never seen Eric’s face this way, so clear and free of pretense, so openly emotive. Dele’s chest tightens again and he wraps his own arm around Eric’s back, gripping Eric’s top in his hand with unmoving fingers. 

“We’re allowed to be upset. Plenty of time to hate ourselves when we get back to England. Plenty of time to discuss how shit we are. Tomorrow.” 

And Eric laughs, a cross between a singular sob and a hiccup, leaning his head up and shutting his eyes tight, patting his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I know. I fucking _know_. You’re right.” 

Dele rubs Eric’s side affectionately. “That’s a first for you, admitting I’m right.” 

And Eric doesn’t answer, just immediately leans into Dele when they sit on the bus, head on Dele’s shoulder, Dele’s fingers deep in Eric’s hair, rubbing soothing patterns into his damp scalp. Eric rests his hand heavily on Dele’s thigh with no regard for who walks by. But Dele knows no one is paying attention to them, and even if they were, he doesn’t think he would care. Their legs rest against each other, Eric’s knee pressing hard but pleasant. Dele relishes every point of contact. 

The lights switch off after everyone silently loads on. The hum and rattle of the bus lulls most to sleep, but Eric burrows closer to Dele, Dele cradling Eric’s head to his chest. Eric inhales sharply and contentedly, and Dele drops his head down to press his lips to Eric’s hair, resting his forehead there for a moment before leaning back and shutting his eyes. If they had to lose, this is how he would like to spend his ride home. No other way would ever suffice. 

Dele feels Eric’s hand cover the side of his face and he looks down at Eric, who pulls Dele down to kiss him briefly, Eric’s slow and soft mouth just opening under Dele’s when Dele pulls away, flustered. 

"On a bus full of people, in case you forgot.” 

“Relax. I made sure Chris was asleep.” 

Chris sits alone across the aisle from them, sprawled out, head against the window. He glows orange in the streetlights they pass. Dele opens his mouth to speak but Eric shushes him. 

“I just threw my toothbrush at him. He’s still asleep. We’re fine.” 

“Well. Now you don’t have a toothbrush.” 

“How will I ever afford another.” 

Eric says dryly, nosing eagerly at Dele’s jaw. 

“Might want to budget better after today’s performance. _Pay cut_.” 

Dele says in sing-song and it draws a sweet laugh from Eric, whose hand is really working a number on Dele’s thigh, kneading the thick fabric of the sweatpants. 

“You think you’re so smart, Del boy.” 

Eric teases as his hand drags up to Dele’s hip, eliciting a small jump from Dele. Eric moves under Dele's top and touches the skin of his lower belly, the feeling of Eric's fingernails on him spiking Dele’s heart rate. Dele readjusts with a whimper and lets Eric ease him into another kiss, Eric surging forward to pin Dele down against his seat as much as he can without causing too much disturbance. Dele doesn’t know how to describe it without sounding foolish, but this fills exactly what was empty, Eric losing all cool, always trying to take and devour. Which is fine and good for Dele, because Dele is his. Dele doesn’t know how to express that without sounding foolish either, but he thinks Eric gets it. 

“You’re coming to mine?” 

Eric asks immediately after pulling away without giving Dele any time to regain his train of thought. Dele rubs absently at his lips. 

“Hm?” 

“When we get back. You’re coming to my room.” 

“Oh. Don’t you think we should spend the night in mourning?” 

Dele is joking but Eric goes steely. “Oh, Diet, I was just – ” 

“This isn’t about the match or the squad. This is about us. And me wanting you to come to my room because I would want you there regardless of how the match went.” 

Dele flushes. “Jesus, Dier. Yes, I’m there.” 

Dele pretends he’s not nervous for the whole rest of the ride back to Chantilly, when Eric sleeps soundly against him. He pretends he’s not nervous when he receives a few knowing smiles when his teammates see Eric against him, the lights popping on again as they reach their destination. He pretends he’s not nervous when Eric keeps a steady palm on his back as they walk inside, and he continues to pretend when he steps aside for a moment to check on Joe and Harry before they scatter to their own rooms. And he pretends he’s not nervous when he creeps to Eric’s room a few minutes after his neighbors lock themselves in for the night. Because he and Eric have never done this – go to each other’s rooms. They’ve laid in bed and kissed lazily between two-a-days, they’ve kissed in each other’s cars, they’ve fallen asleep holding hands in the common room at the training ground. But it’s night, and the way Eric looked at him on the bus was enough for Dele to know. If Dele wanted it to be, it could be different tonight. 

Dele uses the spare key Eric gave him and slips inside in a flash, closing the door so gingerly it hardly clicks. Eric watches on from the bed, propped up and snickering, shirtless and shoeless but still in his sweats. The TV hums along about Brexit and Dele sends a worrying glance toward the set. Eric clicks his tongue. 

“You think I’d actually set it on a channel talking about sport? Fuck off. Had to do something to pass the time waiting for you.” 

“You could have, I don’t know. Wanked off.” 

Eric grins and lets out a full laugh as Dele blushes, nodding in submission to his own stupidity. 

“I’ll be going now.” 

Dele croaks, stepping back playfully toward the door with a grin, and Eric shakes his head no, motioning for Dele to come over to him. And deciding he does want things to go differently tonight, Dele does come, slipping his jumper off as he walks over, slipping smoothly over Eric’s body on the bed, inching them backward until Eric’s head hits the goose feather pillows and not kissing Eric until his head is eased, neck relaxed. Dele straddles Eric’s hips and lowers himself onto Eric, moving against him languidly with each shift in their kiss, both of them a bit lost in each other. Once Dele gets a rhythm going, Eric starts letting out these heavy, desperate breaths, but Dele loses all semblance of tempo when he moves his knee between Eric’s legs and presses – Eric’s eyes go back in his head and his whole body goes taut with a rumbly groan. Dele’s eyes go wide and he pauses but Eric, still looking up, hits the bed beside him. 

“Dele, please, you’ve got to touch me. _Now_. I love you grinding on me but I’m going to fucking finish in my pants.” 

Dele’s eyes narrow with a satisfied smile and he stays still, watching Eric move impatiently below him. 

“I’ve got you close and we’re still dressed. Brilliant.” 

“So _that’s_ how you want to do it.” 

Eric reaches up and flips Dele underneath him, straddling him in the same way Dele had straddled Eric. Eric’s mouth, warm and wet, moves to his neck, jaw, collarbones, chest as Eric audaciously grinds into Dele, who is left still, throat allowing only for whines and the occasional strained breath. Dele grabs Eric’s hair and brings him into a kiss – their teeth clack and Dele’s snag on Eric’s lip. Dele holds Eric’s face close to his and manages a _please, okay, shit, stop Eric, you win_ before Eric kisses him on the edge of his mouth and moves to slip Dele out of his sweats. Eric eyes him cagily until Dele nods and Eric hungrily eases them off Dele’s long, powerful legs, Dele’s skin beautiful against the white bed covers. Eric kisses Dele’s thigh as Dele gazes down at him in reverence. Eric climbs back up to meet Dele’s face and knocks their noses together gently. 

“How close are you, Del boy?” 

The way he says that nickname, gentle and soft, causes a sharply pleasing cramp in Dele’s low belly. Eric’s hand eases onto Dele’s briefs for the first time and Dele arches up, humming deep in his throat, reaching forward to claw at Eric. 

“I’m taking that as pretty close.” 

Eric moves Dele’s briefs down and takes him in his hand, and Dele swallows hard but somehow finds words. 

“Have you done this before?” 

“You mean with someone else?" 

“You seem like you, erm. I don’t know. Know what you’re doing.” 

Eric brings his hand up to his mouth and spits into it with a grin, moving it back down and beginning to slowly stroke Dele into a wordless mess. Eric nuzzles Dele’s face, kissing his ears and forehead as Dele grows impossibly harder in his hand. 

“I’ve just been thinking about this for a while. Getting you off.” 

Dele chokes out a long moan and Eric lets out a shaky breath, his hand going a little unsteady. 

“How does the real thing – _fuck, Eric_ – compare? To your imagination, I mean.” 

“Mate, I have never been this hard in my life. I’m about to fucking black out.” 

“So at _least_ as good as the fantasy.” 

Eric keeps his eyes on Dele’s as he twists his wrist roughly and slicks up Dele in his entirety, and Dele’s whole body shivers. Dele wraps his arms around Eric’s neck and kisses him, encouraging Eric to go on, the noises he’s making going higher pitch, his muscles alternating between slack and tight. 

“Eric. Jesus. I can’t fucking…feels _really_ good.” 

Eric speeds up as Dele loses the ability to form coherent sentences, squirming hot and hypnotized beneath him. Dele’s fingers tap on his shoulder and dig in when he’s close. Eric can feel it. 

“Come on, Del boy, come on.” 

Eric coaxes him on and grins when Dele arches with a shaky sigh, whining desperately as Eric milks him for a moment after he finishes, pawing blindly at Eric’s hand. When Eric lets go of him, Dele falls heavily back against the pillows, hazy and blissful, face shining with sweat. Eric hops off the bed momentarily and goes into the bathroom. 

“Oi, Dier. Better than the fantasy, yeah?” 

Eric yells out _so much better!_ before emerging with a hot towel, climbing back onto the bed and holding the towel up to Dele. 

“Okay if I clean you off?” 

Dele nods and Eric does gingerly. “Better than any girl has given you, hm, Dele?” 

“I imagine you have loads of practice wanking yourself off. So, naturally, yeah.” 

Eric cleans off his hand and goes to throw the towel back into the bathroom but Dele takes it out of his hand and sets it on the bedside table. Eric, a little dazed, eyebrows high, lets Dele ease him against the pillows into the same position Dele had just been in. Dele sits beside him, rubbing circles into Eric’s sweatpants, fingers straying toward the waistband. 

“Dele, from an objective point of view, you’ve got a fantastic cock. Anyone ever told you that before?” 

“Thanks, but. Why we still on about my cock, mate? ‘s your turn.” 

“Was just going to say. Despite your nice one, mine’s better.” 

Dele laughs aloud and asks Eric to take off his pants and briefs, which he promptly does and Dele settles between Eric’s legs, glowing against the stark sheets. 

“Pasty thighs. Decent cock.” 

Eric rolls his eyes and swats Dele on the ear. Eric is pink from his cheeks to his chest. 

“You’re embarrassing me. Get on with it.” 

But Dele gets stuck looking at Eric, studies as many of his little details as he can, open and naked in front of him. Dele says something quietly but Eric doesn’t hear it. 

“Sorry?” 

“I said, you’re gorgeous. Your body. So fit.” 

Eric turns his face to the side, shaking his head with a laugh. “That why you call me Diet, then?” 

“That’s just stick, mate. And your face, too. Not so bad.” 

Dele puts one hand on each of Eric’s thighs, and they jump at Dele’s touch, chilly under Dele’s fingers. 

“Gonna suck you off.” 

And Eric sits up abruptly, mouth ajar, abs straining, looking down at Dele. 

“You sure? I promise, a handy would be just fucking fine, but if you really want, then by all means. Holy fuck.” 

And Dele smirks up at the bothered and rambling Eric, taking Eric into his hand to get him hard again. 

“I've thought a lot about this, too.” 

Dele says as Eric’s head presses back into the pillows and his hands grip Dele’s forearms. 

“Oh yeah? Should’ve done this earlier, then.” 

“Been thinking about it since before we were even good mates.” 

Eric gently, politely pats on Dele’s head and cheek, pleading eyes quickly fluttering shut as Dele cautiously takes him into his mouth, jumping back immediately as Eric’s hips inadvertently hop. Dele dissolves in laughter and Eric apologizes profusely, covering his face with his hands. 

“Stop apologizing, fuck’s sake! First time for both of us, destined to be interesting.” 

Once Dele convinces Eric to relax, Dele presses down on Eric’s hips with his hands, shifting his weight to his upper body, and takes Eric in again, little by little, trying to get used to the entire situation. This, with Eric. 

It’s sloppy, not at all glamorous, but Eric is talking and gasping like mad, so Dele assumes it’s alright. He tries to imagine what he likes and projects it onto Eric, and Dele gets his confirmation when Eric’s hand digs into his short hair and pulls what he can. Dele hisses at the contact but focuses on the task at hand, rubbing Eric’s thighs soothingly to keep him from thrashing. 

“Not bad for your first time.” 

Dele laughs, humming around Eric and causing his hips to stutter. Dele chokes a little and remembers not to laugh, at least not until they get a little more used to this. The idea of this becoming a normal thing for them drives Dele onward. 

“You look insane like this, Del boy. So good.” 

Dele looks up at Eric as much as he can, until his eyes strain in their sockets, until he realizes he can’t quite multitask with a cock in his mouth yet. Eric begins to shake profusely, his broken moans increasing in frequency. He taps on Dele’s shoulder. 

“Dele, mate, I’m close. God, you’re so good. I’m really close.” 

Dele pops off. “You want me to finish you like this – ” He makes a wanking motion with his hand. “ – or like this?” And he sinks back down to continue sucking Eric off and Eric wonders what he did to deserve Dele. He covers his mouth with the back of his hand to keep himself from saying something silly. 

“Just…I don’t want to, you know. In your mouth. That's a bit advanced.” 

“Better decide fast, Diet.” 

Dele grins up at him and Eric rests his hands back on Dele’s face. Dele takes that as an answer and it takes only one more hollowing out of Dele’s cheeks before Eric cries out through gritted teeth and Dele accidentally drools all over Eric and the sheets. Dele reaches for the towel as Eric watches him through heavy eyes and wipes his mouth, taking a few deep breaths before kissing Eric’s hair. 

“Shower first, Del boy. You deserve it. That was one hell of a blowie.” 

Dele smiles and his face lights up as he digs through his things for his toothbrush and toothpaste. 

“Was going to anyway. You’ll be asleep in a few minutes, I’ll bet anything.” 

“Most likely.” 

“But you need to brush your teeth for sure. You can use my toothbrush.” 

And Eric does fall asleep while Dele’s in the shower. Dele slips back into his sweats and sidles into bed next to Eric, who is snoring softly on his back, chest heaving with every breath. Dele rests a hand on Eric’s stomach and puts his head to Eric’s, kissing his temple. 

“Diet. I’ve got to get back to my own room.” 

“Fuck that. Staying.” 

“What time is breakfast?” 

“Why would you think I would know.” 

Dele rolls his eyes and leans over Eric to grab his phone from the table. 

“Seven sharp, Dier. Setting my alarm for six. Have to pack up and get dressed.” 

“Don’t care what you do, long as you stay here.” 

And it’s embarrassing how warm Dele feels hearing that, but he does set his alarm and return to his spot right next to Eric. No matter how hard he tries, ominous thoughts of the day’s match creep in and poke at him as he falls asleep, but then Eric shifts, or snores particularly loud, or curls his hand into Dele’s and the thoughts are at least momentarily muted. Because there will be plenty of time to hate themselves when they get back to England tomorrow. There will be plenty of time to discuss how shit they were. Tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> This just flowed out of me. Really natural to write. These two are the perfect subjects.


End file.
